


the open road

by junieyes



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Because I can, Citizens of Gotham, F/M, Reader-Insert, Villains, dw it's not that bad, sort of villain reader?, thief for fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junieyes/pseuds/junieyes
Summary: Gotham is a cesspool of ridiculous, costumed criminals, exhausted vigilantes, and frothing-at-the-teeth civilians. Perfect, for an ex-assassin that doesn't quite know how to live life as exactly that.(credit to otp-imagines-cult for the prompt list. find them on tumblr)





	1. Hands

Your witch-hunt ends in Gotham.

The apartment is… less than what you imagined. You had assumed a penthouse – something lavish, if not in the tallest building that this cesspool of a city had to offer, then it’s second, or even third.

There would be white marble and white wood, or dark tiles and sleek, silver linoleum. A coordinated aesthetic of high-priced items and quality materials. Tasteless paintings hanging on the walls, maybe even a glossy, grand piano beneath the loft. It would never feel the press of warm skin against its keys.

A wall made entirely of full-length windows would see out into the city, rarely hidden by wispy, lace curtains.

You had _expectations_.

That was your first mistake. A week spent staking out the best that money could afford, wasted. But, it’s a forgivable mistake. It will be irritating if your target flees, but that’s just it. Irritating. You have all the time in the world; your target does not.

As such, you hunker down in this mediocrely made kitchen and wait.

You do not tap your foot, or crack your knuckles; you do not shift nervously on the bamboo barstool and fiddle with your hair; your nails are healthy and well-maintained, so there is no need for cleaning the dirt out from underneath them.

(never mind that your hands are covered from fingertip to wrist in glove)

No. You sit, close your eyes, and revel in the darkness that conceals you. You did not come this far because of an impatient sense of vengeance or the furious desire for retribution.

You did not come here because of something so paltry like _emotions_.

The lock of the front door opens two hours and forty-three minutes later.

You open your eyes and turn, watching serenely as light spills into the hallway. The layout is like this: the kitchen is built into the first archway the apartment has to offer, two yards down from the door, and further down the narrow ‘way is the living area. Beyond that, it branches rightward into a single bedroom, bathroom, and study. 

Because of this most fortuitous floor plan, and the disconcertingly average architecture within, your target stumbles past the kitchen’s entrance with little thought and moves, presumably, to the bedroom.

She does not see you as you stand smoothly from your seat, donned in shadows. She does not hear you as you pad silently behind her, a predator on a slow prowl. She does not smell you over the stench of alcohol emanating off of her own body.

She does not know you are here, does not _expect_ you to be here, and that–

That is an unforgivable mistake. It’s her mistake.

She bypasses the bathroom and fumbles for the bedroom knob.

Right now, you muse, is a moment as good as any. Potentially the optimal moment, if you will.

You could gently encircle your fingers around her throat, caress her soft skin and breath warmly against the shell of her ear, and when she starts to beg, and cry, you _squeeze_. Quick and efficient with a side of sadistic teasing.

Or, you could make it messy; you have enough hidden knives on you that, if they weren’t hidden, you’d glitter like a twenty-carat diamond ring. Let her bleed out across the white carpet and stain the walls with her blood.

You don’t do either of these. Instead, you still yourself and observe as she struggles with even the most basic of tasks, too far gone under the influence of her chosen poison.

You don’t do either of these, because she is your last target. At last, you can indulge.

When there had been more – too many faces and too many names – time had been of the essence. You simply couldn’t afford to draw it out. All you’d had to offer was a simple message – a dead body is still a dead body, after all.

But now…

Finally, the knob gives in and the door swings open.

She is the last loose end; the last fiber of rope you must cut to through to yourself from the weaved net you have been trapped in your entire life.

This isn’t about revenge – it’s about freedom.

And after having had a taste of it – you would do anything to keep it.

Even biting the hand that once fed you. And you would like one last word before you sink your teeth in.


	2. Sleeve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should say, these'll be sort of chronological, sort of not. I've planned a few that jump around, but there should be a general linear timeline that's pretty consistent.
> 
> i had something else to say, but forgot what it was, so enjoy! (thanks for kudos, guys)

You enjoy the cold.

Partly because you can wear as many layers as you wish and look fashionably stylish while doing it. But also because – unlike your sisters – you revel in the chill that tickles your skin, that runs its fingers through your hair and sinks deep into your skull. Your teeth clatter and your body shivers, but you delight in it no less. It makes you feel alive.

Gotham is not generally cold. It’s gloomy and rainy, and there is a startling lack of sun – but it’s not _cold_. It’s chilly at best and muggy at worst.

Seasons, of course. And smog. If you could kill the summer heat and stop industrialisation, you would. Regrettably, you’ve yet to figure that one out.

It’s not so bad. It just means, well. Sleeveless suits.

You skim over your bare skin curiously, as if you have never seen your arm your entire life. It looks quite odd, uncovered. You’ve taken to wearing nothing but a full-bodied suit these past years, whenever able. Less identifiable that way. The piercings can be removed, the skin cannot. Your own flesh has become unfamiliar.

But the weather is too warm for you tonight; you haven’t quite adjusted to the new climate yet. You’d taken a two-month detour after your initial visit, letting the heat die down before coming back to poke the belly of the beast with a stick. You have been here a week insofar since returning to Gotham.

You peer ponderingly at the seventeen carat, gold band situated on a bed of deep, blue velvet. It’s beautiful and would be even more so adorned upon your arm.

You could take it. You’ve already taken care of security and opened its case. There would be nothing stopping you, short of ethics and moral. Neither of which you have.

You tilt your head. But when would you wear it? Not while swinging through Gotham, discovering all of her dirty little nooks and crannies. You don’t want to mar it with blood and other bodily fluids you’re no doubt likely to find yourself coated in. And if you wear it out public – now that’s just stupid. You’re not stupid.

Sighing with no small amount of regret, you gently click the glass pane into place. For a moment you think about a tattoo, before taking it back. Your sisters would never approve of you tarnishing your skin like that. Too recognisable.

They already had a conniption for the lip rings, and you did that twice.

Turning away, deciding that you’re done here for the night, you pause and consider the pit of shadows lurking in the far corner. After a moment of nothing, only complete and utter stillness as you simply stand and stare, you wave a hand.

The darkness does not wave back. You didn’t expect it to.

Ah, well. Other than the illegal break-in, you haven’t done anything wrong. You locked the cabinets back in place. Surely, if you’re not in cuffs just yet, then maybe he believes that you are not beyond redemption? Silly notion. 

Redemption isn’t for people like you.

As you take your leave, the weight of eyes resting heavy on your back, you wonder how it is that the Gotham’s most infamous vigilante has caught on to you. It’s not as though you have joined the ranks of villains in their tacky dress-ups and started terrorising Gotham’s citizens. You are more fond of watching them go about their lives than attempting to dominate them with fear, terror and all that is inane. The usual sort of villainy expected from a Gotham villain.

(they wouldn’t stand a chance if you did try – you are just that good. And you have sisters. Who are as equally good. Just not as good as you. In killing things, anyways…)

Crawling out of the shop and disappearing into the city rids you of your watcher. He doesn’t follow you. You wonder why.

You will have to do this again, you decide. If only to sate your curiosity.

After all, what else have you to do? Your list is complete. There is nobody left scheduled to die by your hand.

\--

\--

It’s a high-end fashion brand this time.

Truth is that you can afford everything that’s hanging on a rack. Being an assassin paid well. And now that your handlers are dead, it was only natural that your sisters and you absorbed their bank accounts. Every note and coin they’d had on hand to offer is yours now.

It’s more than what you know what to do with.

Draping the shiny material across your arm, you smooth it down gently. The texture is masked by your gloves, but the dress glides smoothly between your fingers. Good quality and make. Expensive. You could buy this entire store five times out.

At this point, breaking and entering is your only past time. You’ve yet to actually steal anything you’ve come across.

Sighing, and finding yourself bored – window-shopping is not on the list of things you would call ‘fun’, that’s more something that your eldest sister enjoys – you hang up the dress, shielding it in its protective covering.

There must be a more enjoyable activity across the city somewhere. Someplace more exciting to break into. Turning on your heel, you completely bypass the man in black leaning casually against the nearby wall. You take note of the blue decal splayed across his chest, but other than that – nothing.

It's disappointing, honestly. You were hoping for the bat, not his stand in what-have-you.

“Really? Not even a twitch?”

You tilt your head, gazing at him from your peripherals as he kicks off from his perch. He follows you slowly with his arms crossed. You came through the window up ahead and work your way towards it. You keep a quarter of an eye on his reflection.

For all the crime that goes on in this city, it should be a given that they have one of the better protective measures across this country. Not the case. It was laughably easy to disarm the alarms and triggers, and prying open the glass was as simple as breathing.

“You couldn’t even hear me breathe.”

He sounds oddly… whiny.

Your lip twitches in response. It startles you. This isn’t what you expected. Previous encounters with a _hero_ – any hero at all – are always chock-full of accusations about your lack of moral, ethics, and any and everything else about human empathy that can be named beneath the sun.

(…it’s not entirely unfounded. You’d always been set up to get caught mid-strike, knuckle deep in murder…)

You cast a glance over your shoulder, more curious than you ought to be. Not a lot of things hold your attention span these days. It’s decayed to about the size of gnat, or so says Irina.

He cuts a tall figure in the shadows, with a considerable amount of lean bulk that to anyone else would be cause for concern. He isn’t the first man you’ve encountered that was bigger than you in every physical way; neither would he be the first you’d catch dead in your grasp. You like the big ones. They go down harder than the rest. It’s more rewarding, you find.

But you’re not looking for a fight. Not tonight, at least. Without a live list, killing isn’t something you actively participate in.

“You’re, uh, not planning on saying anything?” His forehead crinkles like he’s frowning behind that domino mask. “Just gonna leave me hanging here?”

If this was a fancy ball, gala, hell, even a club, you’d turn to your sister with a weird look and quietly ask her in your native language what does she think this man’s issue is.

He’s still talking, but you don’t listen, too busy contemplating his chattiness. Are other vigilantes this talkative, or is it just him? No, they mustn’t be.

Shrugging and moving beneath the window, you pooch your lip, barely. The moonlight from outside should be reflecting upon your left snake bite – gold, thin little hoops you’d acquired at the beginning of your rebellious phase; your handler hadn’t approved, but eventually relented when something about it seemed to appeal to your targets.

(Your sisters had hated it when you were the crowning jewel of favouritism, and they hate it now because – ah, well, you’re not sure. They just do)

You know it works when his nose twitches, the domino moving in a way that you might even assume he’s squinting suspiciously at you.

He sighs, uncrossing his arms. He raises his hands, palms towards you in surrender. “Guess I’ll just have to be the bigger person here.” He points at you accusingly, wagging a finger. “We would kindly appreciate it if you could knock off the whole breaking-and-entering gig. Not cool, alright? You haven’t taken anything, which – _thanks_.” He gives you a thumbs up, which you find funny, but suppress the little smile trying to curl your lips. “But if you could just, I don’t know, _not _do anything of the criminal sorts, that’d be great.”

Now you have to smile. When has anyone ever asked you – and so politely at that – to just stop? No guns waved or any manner of threats, warnings of torture, last chances or unpleasant experiences (not that they could ever follow along).

Just a simple, quaint request.

Hah. Not happening. Other than the fact that you’ve got literally no skills for an ordinary civilian life with ordinary, legal hobbies – you want to see how many buttons he has and how deep can you push them before he gets serious. Before that casual exasperation becomes a grave proposition of sterile tiles and white light.

Yes. _Yes_. This is what you need.

A long-term mission. A rather large leap to make, having only just met the man, but it’s not like you’ve anything better to do with your life now that you no longer work for anyone but yourself.

You need entertainment, and here it is readily prostrating itself to you. How can you refuse?

Without forewarning and any acknowledgment on your part towards him, you slide open the glass and dive into the open air.

“Hey, wait!”

Too late. You shoot your grappling gun and the hook flies, connecting to one of the city’s many towers.

His voice follows you on the winds of Gotham, startled and indignant.

You grin where he can’t see you.

Yes. You will definitely be doing this again sometime.

**   
**


	3. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what happened, but I woke up this morning with a sudden boost of motivation?? I haven't read for this fandom in ages, but something in me was like nup, time to write. So I got on the train to work and sort of just smashed this out. Edited the past two chapters a bit for some better wording but yeah that's about it

“Leave me alone.”

Impressive. Almost. You haven’t seen children carry this type of fury since you were a child yourself. Because you. You were that tiny, fury child.

It speaks to a hidden instinct that makes you want to give him warm milk and mashed vegetables.

“Have you nothing better to do?”

Would you be here if you did?

Robin huffs when you don’t respond. More out of exhaustion than true annoyance, you can tell. Well, some, but not at the level you’d wager he was aiming for.

He clearly doesn’t have the energy to engage in verbal combat with you. The nasty concussion must be getting to him. And the drugs. And maybe the broken bones too. He resembles a broken carcass found on the sidewalk than a jaunty singing bird.

(a jaunty singing bird with a penchant for muttered curses and constant threats of death via the blade)

Whatever adrenaline he’d had before is gone now. His walking gate was fine after you untied him from his restraints, but now he’s staggering all over the place.

Maybe you should do something about that?

Before he can react, you pull the boy into your arms. He tries to stab you. It makes you smile. Isn’t it wonderful that you have experience with baby assassins, being that you’d once been one of them?

Rather than a dagger sinking deep into your kidney, a small stick digs into your suit. It doesn’t even scuff. You are sure to keel over from the blunt force trauma at any minute now.

Robin frowns at his hand. So adorable. You pat his back and gently force his head onto your shoulder. If he was in the right mind, you’re sure he would have attempted loud bloody murder. As it is, he goes for a more tame and quiet murder and tries to strangle you instead.

Honestly, it tickles. Whatever drug those thugs gave him must have definitely been mixed with a heavy sedative component. Not really your forte – that’s more in line with your second eldest sister.

Before the kid knows it, you’re across the city landing on your favourite rooftop. It’s 1am. It doesn’t take any brainpower to understand that the kid snuck out. He wouldn’t be now delirious and clinging to you if he hadn’t. The Bat would be all over him the moment he’d left the nest.

Next time you see Batman, you’ll give him a leash to put on his kid. You’re not fond of arrogance and overconfidence, and that seems to be the youngest birds’ only two personality traits. Talented or not, skilled or not, it’ll get him killed before he graduates high school. No, forget high school. Middle school.

It doesn’t take long for his handler to get here.

… a friend of his handler, anyways.

Catwoman practically purrs with devious delight. Goggles on, you can’t see the concern set beneath her eyes. But she doesn’t hide it as well as she’d like. It's the way she walks. Every step planned, every muscle taut beneath a casual veneer. You can see the itch that needs to be scratched – Robin, returned to safe, familiar hands.

You’ve met well with Catwoman. Calling upon her is easier than the Bat.

“When you called, I was expecting something a little more… _exciting_.”

You tilt your nose pointedly at the scruffs of blood staining Robin’s suit. 

“Hah! Darling, don’t lie. You don’t even think it is.” Catwoman is in your personal space in seconds, snapping in front of Robin’s nose. He lifts his head – slowly, lazily – and bares his teeth silently. It makes you puff, amused.

She very carefully takes the boy from your arms into hers. “Concussion, then? Doesn’t seem _too_ bad. Mind you, still shit, for an eight year old.”

Robin grits out, “I am not _eight_.”

You both ignore him. Whatever keeps him awake. Irritation, apparently.

“Sedative,” you say quietly, clearing your throat. It goes unused too often. Your accent unhidden roughens up your words. “Woke him up not long ago. Some broken bones too.” You purse your lips thinking.

“Walk in the park,” Catwoman waves away. “Just a nasty little headache, _ooh_.” She teases Robin, to his ever-growing displeasure. “Let’s get you back to your daddy before he throws his back out.”

She takes her leave in the opposite direction she came from. The fire escape. Safer option to hop roofs with a delicate body in her arms.

Over her shoulder, she calls, “Maybe next time we can do something a little more… _fun_. Ta!”

And she’s gone.

It’s just you, the moon, and the Gotham night.


	4. Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its 1am and this is about as edited as you can expect from that sort of ethic

Gotham should just give up at this point. Fun clearly doesn’t belong in this city.

Is there a motto? You think there should be. How about Murphy’s Law? They can start a fundraiser to trademark the phrase. If it can go wrong, it will. 

You cut your quiet grumbling short when a leafy vine as thick as your forearm shatters the glass near your head. Unbothered by the screams, possibly even excited by them, as if it has ears to hear, the vine curls around a display table and snatches it out of the train carriage with a whip-like crack.

You are on your knees and wearing civvies. Not even casual civvies. Instead, you’re dressed to the nines in a lovely satin piece and pointy heels. There are dangly bits of metal and sparkling gems hanging from your ears, and your fingers are adorned in enough rings that brass knuckles would be less effective.

Yes, you’ve your knives and a pistol hidden between your thighs, but what use is that in the face of Poison Ivy? She has sentient _plants_. You’d need a sword to fight these fucking things. Not something you can hide up the skirt of your dress, regrettably.

You’ll amend that once you get out of here.

For now, focus. The only thing you have to thank in this situation is that the train isn’t moving. It’s not even on any tracks. It’s just a few carriages from Gotham old refurbished into a new, high society museum exhibition. _Fun_, Irina said, thrusting a too expensive to justify admission ticket in your hand. Because apparently, you don’t do enough of it.

You take offense to the sentiment. You do _plenty_ of fun things, actually. Like antagonise young men that tumble through the city in a skin-tight suit and takes every chance he gets to rant about – oh, _everything_. You think there cannot be this many things to complain about, but he manages it well enough.

A tactic, maybe? Can’t steal, kill, or have any type of fun if you’re forced to politely endure his company. No, instead, you hover around, really just standing there, as he informs you of things that require no real need for a second opinion. It is the type of pointless conversation that you have no use for.

For every interaction that you win, he puts in his whole to best you the next time.

(it’s not as if you don’t try to escape when your patience finally runs dry. He just doesn’t let you _leave_. The man is persistent and will _follow_ you.

This is a game that you like to give out but not receive.

Consider it now your civic duty to cause undue rest whenever within his vicinity)

The window opposite you bursts into a rain of glass. A large mass of black and blue dives into the carriage and roles to a stop right next to you.

Thank you, whichever and whatever deity is listening out there, that you’re not wearing your snakebites, because think of the devil–

“Well _hello_.” Nightwing grins, sprawled out in a suave position that your 100% certain was planned. “Do you come here often?”

You stare at him blankly. A massive flower head with sharp teeth strikes through the broken window next to you and chomps the chandelier.

Nightwing loses the grin. “Right.” He tucks up into a sprinter’s rest. “Keep low, keep quiet, keep calm. You’re less likely to catch their attention that way.”

“Yes,” you say blandly, using your childhood training to disguise your natural accent. It’s rougher than you aimed, but he doesn’t seem to take notice. “Tell that to _them_.”

He turns with you as you point to a group of Gotham elites on the far side of the carriage. You both watch as they shake off their terror and start picking apart the display pieces and random, sharp debris to fight back. _Is that–?_ You almost whistle as Miranda Carleton – a very pleasant and very classy gold-digger with few compunctions – tears a leaf larger than half her height to shreds with the heel of her stiletto. Her date for the evening drives a broken table leg into an oversized tulip bud nearby.

“I honestly don’t know which I prefer,” Nightwing leans over and whispers. He sounds half conspiring and half bemused, with a greater underlying tone of fear derived awe. “When they used to hide in the corner and get in the way, or when they do _this_.”

“That’s arrogant of you,” you say. Your voice becomes more confident the more you talk. “You want them to be helpless so you can have the pleasure of being their saviour?”

“What? No, that’s not what I–“

“Or do you think they’re pests, like – like fleas. Or tiny cockroaches,” You continue to accuse, finding his put out expression – expressive, despite the mask – satisfactory. This is a win for you and he doesn’t even know it. “Annoying necessities that come with the job? You just crave the fight, don’t you.” You nod knowingly as if you have figured it all out.

His mouth hangs open at a loss. “You – hang on, you’re putting words in my mouth–“

“No.”

His forehead wrinkles, nose twisting. “_No_ – you can’t just say _no_.”

You just look at him. Open your mouth slowly. “No.”

A moment of silence – other than the ambient noise of enraged Gothamites wrecking fury upon Ivy’s children – as he absorbs that.

“Alright,” he finally concedes, but not at all like he believes it. “You were twisting my words then.”

You shrug. “If you think so.”

His face is so incredulous it hurts.

“I don’t like this,” he says at once. “I don’t like this conversation at all. I’m not even gonna call it a conversation. Because it was _less_ than that.”

“If you want.”

His disgruntlement is _delectable_.

You point out to a ruffled band of elites. You think one of them is trying to set fire to one of the massive, woody roots tearing up the flooring. “I think you should do something about that.”

“That is a fantastic idea,” he says, but he looks at them with anything but enthusiasm. Reluctance, more like. Yes, they are quite fearsome, for civilians. Squish and soft, they should be. Gothamites are made of a different sort of mettle, clearly. “That’s exactly what I came for. And I will, I’ll get up in just a few seconds, one more moment – look at them. I wouldn’t want to ruin their _fun_–“

His sudden stalling leaves you somewhat puzzled, yet highly amused. It’s cut short by a thin, itchy vine curling around Miranda, who was doing so well if you’re to judge, and snatching her out of the carriage. A string of highly creative and utterly dirty expletives follows in her wake. Her kidnapping only spurs on the rage of the crowd.

“Alright, alright,” Nightwing groans, standing up. “I’m going. I sat down for two seconds max. The civvies had it under control – seriously, have you seen them? I bet you they could take Ivy down on anger alone.”

You spare him an odd glance. You don’t recall saying anything. Hm. Someone over his earpiece – small and coloured to his skin, almost undetectable if not for your keen eyes – it must be. You wonder which one. The red one? The short one.

Nightwing is two steps away from you when he suddenly jerks around, pointing a finger at you, wagging it. It reminds you of the first night you met.

“Don’t get into trouble. And absolutely do not talk to Poison Ivy.” He slashes the air with both arms in an x formation. “Don’t even look at her, alright?”

“Okay,” you say tamely.

He gives you an untrusting glance. You don’t need to see his eyes to recognise that.

You wave a hand. “Shoo.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Just one more look before ducking out the same window he came through the first time.

That leaves you alone in a ruined carriage, in a silky dress, sitting idly near the carcasses of Poison Ivy’s babies. She is going to be _so_ mad. Heartbroken and on a warpath. You’ll have to put your attempts at allying with her on hold for the time being.

The group of manic elites have already absconded into the carriage next over in search of their next conquest.

For once, you decide to do as your told and wait it out. There isn’t much you can do without outing yourself or adopting a suspicious hue if you join the fight.

Irina was right. This _is_ fun. It would have been more fun if you were out there too.

You content yourself with watching the sunset light painting the wall opposite you, and the ambient soundtrack playing on outside.


End file.
